


Tensions

by vienn_peridot



Series: Angelus Primus [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Arguing, Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Fights, Friendship, Hangover, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, One-Sided Attraction, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9690539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: "What we've got here is failure to communicate." ~Donn PearceDrift misunderstands the nature of the relationship between Ratchet and Rodimus.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This follows directly on from the end of 'Wish you were here'

Ratchet woke to his internal alarm and the quiet groaning of an extremely hungover Rodimus. Apparently neither of them had moved much during the night. He was still lying on his front with Rodimus curled in a ball at his side, tangled in blankets with his helm cradled in both hands and radiating absolute misery.

With a groan of his own, Ratchet indulged in a full morning stretch, his wings rustling at full extension for a moment before they folded into a comfortable tuck against his backplating. That done, Ratchet propped himself up on his elbows and considered the suffering mech beside him.

It was telling that Rodimus hadn’t even twitched when normally he watched Ratchet’s wings with the intent focus of a cougaraider kitten stalking something shiny. A vague sense of amusement from Primus’ presence in his Spark told Ratchet that he wasn’t the only one who’d thought of it.

_Your sense of humour leaves a_ lot _to be desired._

Turning his attention back to Rodimus, Ratchet pressed a sense of query/offer against the other mech’s Field, laying a finger beside the speedster’s forearm port panel and waiting.

As soon as the panel popped open, Ratchet slid a diagnostic jack into the appropriate slot and ran a brief systems’ check. There was nothing worse than the expected readings for high engex toxicity, so he uploaded a few painkilling programs before withdrawing and unplugging.

The Captain’s quarters had their own small energon dispenser, so while he waited for the painkilling programs to take effect Ratchet picked his way through the wreck of Rodimus’ main room to find it, adding some things to help neutralise the toxic compounds in Rodimus’ systems to one of the cubes before heading back to the speedster’s berthroom.

By now Rodimus was sitting on the edge of his berth, helm down and arms wrapped around his midsection as he stared at the floor. Ratchet handed the suffering mech the appropriate cube and sat beside him as he sipped dubiously with the air of a mech who expected to be purging his tanks at any second. He finished his own cube in half the time it took Rodimus to reach the bottom of his, but Ratchet had no objections to sitting quietly and waiting for the younger mech to finish. He extended a wing to brush the edges of Rodimus’ Field, cupping around him in an intangible embrace that Rodimus abruptly sagged into with a sigh of sparkfelt gratitude.

“Feel any better?” Ratchet kept his voice low as Rodimus finally dissipated the plasma membrane of his cube with a sigh.

“Yeah, a bit.” His voice was scratchy and rough with vocaliser damage from the previous night. “Thanks, Ratch. For everything.”

Rodimus’ Field said more than his words, awkwardly and almost pathetically grateful.

“Any time.” Ratchet said as he checked his chronometer. He caught the doubt flickering against his Field and turned a glare on Rodimus. “I _mean_ it, Speed Racer.”

Embarrassment flooded Rodimus’ faceplates with warmth and he looked away, appreciation and discomfort rippling through his Field.

“I’ve got the Medbay this morning; come down if you’re still feeling this bad in a couple hours and I can give you a stronger system cleanser.” Ratchet’s tone made it an order. “That was some pretty potent stuff you were knocking back last night. To be honest, I’m surprised you’re actually sitting up right now.”

Rodimus looked up with a tired little smile on his face.

“I’m surprised as well.” He sounded a little less croaky than before. “Probably wouldn’t be if you hadn’t come taken the bottle off me when you did.”

There wasn’t anything he could say to that; they both knew Rodimus was right.

Sighing through his vents, Ratchet reluctantly engaged the transformation sequence to hide his wings away so he could leave Rodimus’ habsuite without being exposed as an Avatar of Primus. The overlapping platelet ‘feathers’ slid easily over each other and the sequence executed more smoothly than it had in a long time, testament to the regular grooming and maintenance sessions Rodimus had been foisting upon him.

_Spending more time with the blasted things out probably helps, too._

“Have a good shift, Ratch.” Rodimus said as Ratchet left the Captain’s berthroom.

Picking his way across the shambolic main room distracted Ratchet so thoroughly that the fact that someone might be in the corridor outside didn’t even cross his mind. Simply relieved to be out of the cushion-stuffing minefield he shifted to his normal walking speed as soon as he was within a few steps of the door, barrelling right on through as it slid open and almost knocking down a familiar white-plated form lurking just outside.

_The slag?!_

Of all the people Ratchet could have run into outside Rodimus’ quarters first thing in the morning, the _last_ person he expected was Drift.

But there he was, hovering awkwardly in the hallway as Ratchet left. He hadn’t pressed the door chime yet or Ratchet would have heard it. Rodimus would have too, for that matter. So Ratchet had no real idea of how long Drift had actually been waiting out here.

_What is he doing here? Has he come to check on Rodimus?_

Drift had obviously been expecting someone else –most likely Rodimus- because when Ratchet appeared in the doorway Drift jumped, optics cycling wide as his armour flexed. An unreadable expression flashed across Drift’s face, quickly replaced by a forced, pained-looking version of his trademark easy smile.

Out of habit Ratchet ran a few quick scans over Drift. According to the results he was perfectly healthy, so Ratchet assumed that any discomfort was purely emotional and therefore None Of His Business. He waited for Drift to say something, maybe explain why he was loitering outside Rodimus’ quarters, but the speedster stayed uncharacteristically silent.

“Can I help you?” Ratchet finally asked when it became obvious that Drift wasn’t capable of breaking the silence.

“I-is Rodimus in?” Drift asked as his armour twitched. “He, I, um, we were supposed to meet at the training rooms half an hour ago but he never showed up. Training with swords, that is.” There was more nervous armour twitching, accompanied by a black hand rising to rub at tense neck cables. “He wanted me to teach him how to fight with blades and I was wondering where he’d gotten to. If he still wanted to and had just forgotten or-”

It was a stream of nervous babble worthy of Swerve or Blurr; something Ratchet didn’t have time for.

“Yeah, he’s still in.” Ratchet said briskly, stepping away from the door and around Drift. “Go easy on him, kid. He’s had a rough night.”

The look Drift gave him defied description or categorisation. Ratchet had the distinct feeling that he was missing something very important as the speedster’s Field retreated out of range.

“Okay.” Drift said after a while, only increasing Ratchet’s feeling that something was off.

_Oh well, kid’s always been a bit weird._

“See that you do, then.” Ratchet said brusquely before marching off towards the Medbay and his shift, putting Drift and his odd behaviour from his mind.

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

The system cleanser and pain-blocking programs took just enough of the edge off Rodimus’ hangover to make the prospect of sparring with Drift seem less like torture and more like a justly deserved punishment. He went without causing a fuss, only indulging in the most cursory grumble about the white mech being an aft and dragging him out of bed when he could still get another half-days’ worth of recharge before his next duty shift.

Miserable and preoccupied as he was, it took a while for Rodimus to notice Drift’s odd behaviour. He was quiet and withdrawn on the way to the training room, so Rodimus assumed Drift was waiting for him to initiate conversation. But whenever he tried to get something going Drift just muttered short, one-word answers. Every time Rodimus cautiously extended his Field he encountered an inexplicable wall of resentment that vanished as soon as Drift realised what he was doing and pulled his EMF out of range. Confused as pit, Rodimus didn’t push the matter as he let habit guide his movements through their warmup routine.

Then they got the blunted practice blades out and Drift’s mood changed.

The instant black hands closed around sword hilts Drift’s Field went from sullen and withdrawn to a split second of focused rage before pulling away once again. That brief impression sent a chill down Rodimus’ backstruts and put him on guard as they took up positions in the middle of the training room.

That split second probably saved Rodimus’ helm, as Drift attacked long before he was ready.

Faceplates creased in a snarl worthy of Deadlock, the white speedster attacked as if Rodimus was his deadliest enemy.

Even on his best days Rodimus couldn’t hold his own against Drift with his chosen weapons and he knew it. After two exchanges where he took hits that would have been lethal if Drift was properly armed Rodimus decided to call a stop to the training session. But before he could get his vocaliser working Drift slammed a sword hilt into his midsection, following up with a kick that sent Rodimus staggering backwards until his back hit the wall of the training room.

That. Was. _it_.

Rodimus’ helm was still pounding from the after-effects of too much strong engex, guilt about the unchangeable past ate at him and he was officially _out of patience_ with Drift and the way his friend was acting.

“Alright Drift; what the slag crawled up your tailpipe and died?” Rodimus demanded, wheezing as he straightened up, dropping his guard and letting the blunted tips of his training swords fall to the floor. “This slag just _isn’t_ like you.”

“More like _who_ crawled up _your_ tailpipe.” Drift snarled, sounding as if the words half-choked him on the way out of his vocaliser. “Or whose tailpipe _you_ crawled up last night.” Accusation filled Drift’s voice now. “I know you don’t exactly have standards Rodi but Primus below, I thought I was your _friend!_ ”

The white mech’s Field lashed out in a complicated tangle of hurt and jealous rage, blindsiding Rodimus almost as much as the implications of Drift’s words.

“What _exactly_ are you accusing me of here, Drift?” Rodimus forced his voice to stay calm and steady, keeping his Field tucked close to his plating. “Because I _really_ don’t like what I _think_ you’re suggesting.”

Drift’s glare could have cut through solid titanium.

“Don’t act dumb. You know what I mean.” He snarled, optics and Field burning with rage. “You and _Ratchet_.”

The way Drift’s voice cracked on the medic’s designation was telling, as was the stab of purely emotional pain in his Field. Full comprehension started to trickle through the hangover bogging down Rodimus’ processor, but he still wanted to hear Drift say it.

_Need to get this out in the open so he stops stewing in it._

“Me and Ratchet _what?_ ” Rodimus kept his voice steady by pure luck. The confusion and wounded innocence seeping out into his Field were completely true but there was no way Drift would be able to see that right now.

“Slag it all, Rodi. You _know_ how I feel about him.” Drift’s voice broke again, his optics glittered. “Then you go behind my back with all those _meetings_. After _everything_ I’ve done for you, helping you with this Quest.”

That was a blow that Rodimus would have expected from anyone except Drift.

“I believed you when you said it wasn’t anything serious, that it was all work stuff. Because you were my friend, and like the idiot I am I _trusted_ you.” Drift’s tone was rising now, hands tightening on the hilts of his swords. “Then yesterday he’s looking for you, saying you have urgent business and I _know_ you, Rodimus.” Overbright optics focused on Rodimus again, accusing. “ I _saw_ him outside your hab this morning. You’ve been fragging him behind my back and didn’t even have the struts to _tell_ me.”

Even though he’d been more than half-expecting the accusation, Rodimus was still taken aback.

“What the slag?! Drift, he’s not... Ratchet’s not… he doesn’t _roll_ like that, mech!” Rodimus struggled to find the words to explain the situation, the words to get through to Drift without breaching Ratchet’s privacy too much. “He’s not into fragging. Not me, not _anyone_.”

Unfortunately this just seemed to make things worse.

“ _Liar!_ ” Drift snarled, engine revving dangerously. “I’ve heard all the rumours. He was the biggest flirt in Iacon before the war, even guttermechs knew about the Party Ambulance of Deltaran! And don’t forget that I know _you_ ; you’ll frag _anyone_ who looks interested.”

Rodimus wasn’t sure what hurt more –the accusation of lying or the attack on Ratchet’s character.

“Flirting, yeah. And he likes to dance, but that’s it!” He tried to explain. “You ever hear of it going further than that? Even _once?_ ”

“No, but I don’t need to!” Drift was shouting now, voice echoing from the training room walls. “ _Everyone_ knows what happens after flirting and dancing at clubs.”

_The resonance of all those Sparks feeling joy in being alive, even just for a little while; it’s like a balm. Counteracts all the rest of the slag._

The memory Ratchet’s words echoed in Rodimus’ cortex. It was one time he’d truly felt like he _understood_ something about this ‘new’ version of Ratchet.

_But just because I find the same thing in the berth it doesn’t make Drift_ right _._

Forcing himself to run his ventilations in long, steady cycles and keeping a tight grip on both his temper and Field, Rodimus opened his hands and let the practice swords fall. The energon in his lines was heating dangerously, fast approaching the ignition point.

“You are _wrong_.” He said slowly and carefully, “And this is something you need to talk to Ratchet about; _not_ me. I’m not going to argue with you anymore because you’re obviously not thinking clearly.”

_I should leave before I do something stupid. Like try to punch some_ sense _into him._

When he got his processor set on something Drift could be singularly stubborn about it. Primus alone knew how thick the swordsmech’s really helm was; Rodimus wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

“What, I don’t immediately agree with you so suddenly I’m _not thinking clearly?_ ” Drift scoffed, throwing his practice swords aside. They landed with a clatter, skidding across the floor. “Just because I don’t believe the words of a wannabe Prime who’ll frag anything that passes the Ambus Test?”

There were a lot more words after that, but they all vanished into a haze of white-hot rage as Rodimus’ fraying self-control finally snapped and he drove his fist right into the middle of Drift’s sneering face

 

### ~V~V~V~

 

“What the slag is this?!” Ratchet demanded, staring aghast at the pair of scorched and battered speedsters that staggered through the door into medbay

_It looks like someone set both of them on fire and put them out with a combine harvester!_

“Um…”

Drift was avoiding eye contact, his faceplates and finials glowing with embarrassment, cutting bright yellow shapes in infrared. His armour was covered in sooty streaks and there were obvious knuckle-shaped dents decorating thinner plating and warping the overlaps at several important joints. Under Ratchet’s scrutiny he shifted his weight from pede to pede, either from nerves or because he was easing the strain on an obviously twisted knee joint.

“Training accident.” Rodimus raised his chin aggressively, staring Ratchet straight in the optic and daring him to challenge the obvious lie.

At Ratchet’s raised optical ridge Rodimus crossed his arms over his chest and continued to stare the medic down. He was in a worse state than Drift, covered in dents and gashes that looked like they’d been made by a blade or claws –or both. An optic for detail refined by thousands of years of war could easily tell the difference between wounds inflicted by the blade of say, a sword, and those created by battle-grade claws. Rodimus wore both and when the red speedster crossed his arms over his chestplates he had revealed a large number of what were clearly defensive wounds across his forearms and hands.

Even without their withdrawn fields and negative body language –leaning away from each other, carefully not looking in the other mech’s direction- their appearance alone was enough to tell Ratchet that something had gone very wrong between the two speedsters.

_This is more than just one of their squabbles…_

Drift was so desperate for approval, so desperate to fit in that even with his past Ratchet just couldn’t see him attacking someone without extreme provocation. While Rodimus could be extremely annoying even on his best days, they’d never once escalated an argument past growling, posturing and insults. The white speedster looked particularly uneasy; his faceplates downcast and optics focusing anywhere _except_ on the two long-time Autobots.

Angry on Drift’s behalf, Ratchet deliberately caught Rodimus’ optics and gave him a _look_ that said he intended to have a talk with the speedster about this later. The belligerent stare he got in return gave the medic no illusions about getting the straight truth from him, even under torture.

“You sure that’s all this is?” Ratchet asked sceptically, pointing the pair at well-separated medberths and analysing their movements as first Drift and then Rodimus limped towards the berths indicated. “Because I’m not above having Magnus review security footage if I have reasonable suspicion that either of you are lying to me.”

Horror surged through Drift’s Field; horror and shame that made Ratchet’s wings _itch_ even after the speedster had snatched his EMF back out of range again.

_Something_ definitely _isn’t right here._

Making a mental note to speak to Magnus, Ratchet kept his attention on Drift, frowning as he tried to figure out what might be behind that odd surge of emotions. He saw the instant Drift’s twisted knee joint gave out and was already moving to catch the soot-streaked speedster when Rodimus stopped him with an outstretched arm.

Glancing sideways, Ratchet raising an optical ridge questioningly, but all he got in response was a frown and a small shake of Rodimus’ battered and scratched helm. The presence in Ratchet’s Spark suddenly chimed in; Primus using his authority to back up Rodimus’ silent command. Defiance flared within him only to be drowned by a sudden surge of nausea.

There was something going on here that he was _not_ supposed to get involved with.

Growling silently, Ratchet stood down.

All of this took place in the split second between Drift losing his balance and catching himself on the edge of the medberth in a grip so powerful that the tough metal warped in his hands as he hauled himself back upright.

“No need to do that, Ratch.” Rodimus said in a deliberately casual voice that didn’t match the tension he could see humming through the red mech’s frame as he limped towards his own medberth. “We’re already paying for our stupidity. No need to get cruel and unusual about it.”

Silent pressure increased, insisted that he drop the matter. It was accompanied by more nausea and a vague sense of foreboding Ratchet had felt several times before.

It was that warning more than anything else that made him drop the subject and get on with treating his patients.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic has been simmering away for a while, since I caved to offsite pressure and tried to take this AU in the direction others wanted instead of where it was supposed to go... It didn't work and was a valuable lesson for me about sticking true to the creative vision for a story/AU.  
> In this instance, the AU is supposed to focus on the friendship between one of Primus' Avatars and a Chosen Matrix Bearer. Drift was never supposed to know about what Ratchet is, which is why that particular oneshot came out so badly I never posted it to AO3 -.-;
> 
> Happier thoughts: RODIMUS AS A LITTLE COUGARAIDER KITTEN. _I am fuckin dying of the cute_


End file.
